


Ready to Walk a Path That's New

by defcontwo, sparklyslug



Series: new jersey is for lovers [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, endgame jack/kent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:16:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6715954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyslug/pseuds/sparklyslug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’ll always have things to apologize to each other for. But these days, they’re trying to focus  on what they have to thank each other for. </p><p>These days, that’s a much longer list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ready to Walk a Path That's New

**Author's Note:**

  * For [schwule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/schwule/gifts).



> A gift for our wonderful wonderful buddy schwule, because they deserve all good things. And because in this case "all good things" combines with SHAMELESSLY self-indulgent ideas about Kent playing for what is the favorite team of 2/3 of us. 
> 
> All the hearts and soft emoji love to you, buddy. Thank you for all that you do. 
> 
> (Title is from "So Jersey" by the Bouncing Souls, because of course it is)

Red’s always suited Kent.

Almost every color suits Kent, to be fair. Blues and greens and even oranges and purples, he manages to pull them all off. Which is maybe why black is the one color that didn’t quite work on him, and the white of an Aces away jersey even less so. He’s genetically blessed, everyone knows it, the guy can wear anything and make it look good. Any shade, but not the composite of all of them. Any hue, but not an absence of hue.

Or maybe it was just where Jack’s head was at the time, watching Kent move like poetry on the ice in a black Aces sweater and thinking (more than a little petty) that the color made him look sallow. Washed-out.

But red’s always been the color that did it for Jack, on Kent. And the bright, bold reds most of all. He can work any shade, but the more muted and deep Samwell crimson wouldn’t have had quite the same effect. That kind of flame red, bright and loud and impossible to ignore, that’s always been what sparked Kent’s eyes, set off his hair, made his skin seem to glow. If there’s one color that says ‘I dare you to ignore me, do so at your own fucking peril,’ that would be the color that works best for Kent Parson.  

And Kent knew it too, smirking at him from under the brim of a red snapback, or pulling the sweat-soaked fabric of his baggy red workout tank top away from his chest with an exaggerated sigh of relief. Smugly taking in Jack’s reaction.

Years later the effect isn’t much different. And years later, Jack doesn’t have to keep emphatically telling himself that Kent doesn’t look near-flawless in whatever he’s wearing. Jack can see Kent in that red jersey for the first time, in the much-anticipated first media day after the trade, sitting comfortably on a tiny stool and taking questions. And he can think, _damn._

Red looks good on Kent. Looks good in his apartment, in what might just be the same ratty tank, downgraded to loungewear now that he never has to pay for his own top-of-the-line workout gear. Has looked good throughout his first season in New Jersey, even the white away jersey somehow working better for the bands of scarlet at his hips, shoulders, arms, splashed across his chest and back.

But it’s never looked better on him than it does when he’s drenched in sweat and champagne, hat screwed on off-center over his curls, the Stanley Cup over his head and a wide, wide smile hidden somewhere under that awful playoff beard.

 

Never looked better than the next morning, Kent in a red hoodie, zipped open over his chest, pressing the key to his shore house into Jack’s hand.

“I’ve got media, there’s some team shit, next few days,” he’d said, eyes on the key in Jack’s hand instead of Jack’s face. “Meet me down there?”

Jack, only barely awake himself, closed his fingers around the key.

“I’ll be there,” Jack promises.

Maybe it’s his imagination, that he can feel the grit of sand and the roughness of salt in the metal of the key in his hand.

He reaches for the neck of Kent’s hoodie, grabs a handful of that red to pull him in.

“I’ll be there,” Jack says.

 

That Kent’s secure in the knowledge that Jack will be waiting for him is still surreal to think about. Neither of them want to look at it too directly or prod it too hard, in case it might shatter. And that’s not to say that there aren’t still moments, when Kent’s expression will darken or Jack will flinch away. But it’s more a habit they both have to unlearn, than something that haunts them anymore.

They’ll always have things to apologize to each other for. But these days, they’re trying to focus on what they have to thank each other for.

These days, that’s a much longer list.

 

Jack opens every window in the house, and lets the stale air blow its way out, and lets fresh, crisp sea air blows its way in. He wipes down the kitchen counters, and runs the taps until the water clears up. He throws out the fancy bottles of hot sauce that Kent bought last summer on a whim at a farmer’s market, because there’s no way that those are any good anymore.

The last time they were here together, they were still learning how to be friends again. Still trying to dance around every landmine, only to wind up tripping and falling onto every single fucking one anyways.

It was a whole year ago, now, but it still feels close enough that Jack can see himself on that same old dusty couch, the one that Kent can’t bring himself to get rid of because it used to belong to his Nonna. Kent curled into Jack’s side, and Jack digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands so hard that they drew angry, red crescents all to keep from kissing Kent, and sending them straight back to the start.

Jack almost went his whole life without ever making a move; he wanted it to be enough, that they were friends, that he could look at the space between them, and know that there was finally trust there again.

But Jack spent a decade not kissing Kent Parson; a lifetime would’ve been impossible.

In the end, it was as simple as that.

Jack loads up the fridge with the groceries he grabbed from the last Shop-Rite before he drove over the bridge. He finds sheets, makes up the master bed. Brings the deck chairs out of the garage, making an absent mental note to check if there’s air in the tires of the beach cruisers Kent had bought last time.

With all that work done, if he can really call it that, Jack finally settles himself into one of the deck chairs. On his favorite porch, the one just off the master bedroom, on the top floor. With the curtains drawn back, you can see the ocean from the bed.

Jack’s fine with admiring it from here, for now. Waiting for Kent. Wondering if he’ll let Jack know when he’s on his way down from Newark. Or if he’ll just surprise him, a crunch of gravel in the driveway the only advance warning that Jack gets.

It’s a nice thought; Jack wouldn’t mind being surprised.

 

He’s poking at his phone with a mug of coffee in front of him, sending quick texts to Shitty, Tater, and Guy. More tentative, carefully-worded responses to Bitty’s congratulatory messages. Things are still a little raw there, even with the best of intentions all around paving the road right where neither of them wanted it to go. But he’s feeling good. Overall, he’s feeling really good. Broaden the frame, pull back a little, take in the full picture, and Jack can’t think of a moment in which he’s been better.

And given that he wasn’t the one to press his palms around silver handles and throw upwards of thirty pounds over his head like it was light as air, that’s not nothing.

Not that he didn’t want that. Not that he wasn’t a miserable asshole for the week after Providence was blown out of the water. Losing in the Conference Final isn’t any big disgrace, but it sure as hell isn’t getting to the big show.

It’s farther than they’ve ever gotten before, though. And he’s got a good feeling about next year. The prospects, the guys who’d come into their own this season, the late trades and call-ups who’d proven themselves to be more than just a body to take the place of an injury. They played their hearts out, and he can see with a former coach’s eye that there are some real talents there, that just need a little time to blaze into full promise on Providence’s ice.

This season, it was bad luck that took them out of the picture too early. Next season, Jack doesn’t think they’ll be relying as much on any kind of luck, good or bad. And he plans to take that Cup right out of Kent’s hands.

Kent knows. He’ll be delighted to fight him for it, when the time comes. He thought it would be harder, facing off with Kent as divisional rivals instead of the once-in-a-while matchup with Vegas that they’d had before.

But as crushing as being knocked out was, there was a deep thrill to being able to play against Kent for that many games, back to back to exhausting and ultimately heartbreaking back.

But Kent had held up the handshake line in Game 6, to press his face to Jack’s temple and wrap his arms around him and say nothing.

Jack still woke up the next morning in a mood anyways, pissy and short-tempered and snapping over his morning coffee, and they’d given each other a little bit of space. But in the moment, he’d stopped feeling every one of the aches and pains he was carrying on him. He’d just relaxed, and smiled tiredly, and held Kent tightly.

“Good game,” he’d whispered into Kent’s hair, and he’d meant it.

 

He hears the car turn in the drive, hears the door slam shut. Decides to wait it out, setting aside the phone and pushing the mug out of spilling danger range. Kent doesn’t open the screen door so much as he barrels right through it, leaving it clacking behind him and Jack would chirp him about that, about the inevitable home repair it’ll lead to, but then he’s got an armful of Kent Parson, red hoodie and Championship ring and all.

Jack stumbles backwards with the weight of Kent, but then catches his bearings, surges forward, digging his fingers into the loose fabric of Kent’s sweatshirt. There’s a clatter in the distance, Kent’s sunglasses falling off the top of his head and straight onto the floor, but Jack’s too busy pressing Kent into the counter, too busy trying to get at every inch of skin that’s available to him.

It didn’t used to be like this. The pace of it, sure, and the way Jack never could get enough fast enough, that’s not changed at all. But now, there’s a quiet settling deep in Jack’s core; it’s a still stretch of water in the middle of the storm and it’s just like coming home.

That part’s new.

“So, how’s about it, babe?” Kent says, out of breath and grinning from ear to ear, his face mercifully free of the playoffs beard at last so now Jack can see where every one of his summertime freckles have started to come in. “Victory sex, you and me.”

“Eh, I don’t know,” Jack says, hands at Kent’s hips, pushing him up and back onto the kitchen counter. “Think I might have to pass. _I_  didn’t win anything.”

Kent hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Jack’s jeans, wraps his legs around Jack’s hips and tugs him closer, until they’re pressed flush together. “Yeah, well, you’re about to.”

Jack barely gets the chance to laugh into the next kiss.

 

Change hasn’t come to this town, even with the arrival of its most famous homeowner to date. Maybe because even though he just bought this place a few years ago, Kenny Parson was never news to the handful of year-round residents, staying with his Nonna for another summer and for unpredictable stretches during the school year, when the hockey season was over.

Kent hadn’t been a big deal back then. Neither had Jack, for blissful brief stretches every summer. Bob Zimmermann still got recognized occasionally, even in the kind of tiny shore town that didn’t rate a real boardwalk, but it happened rarely enough that they all could consider it a proper vacation.

Kent Parson, twelve years old and never out of a Brodeur shirsey that he was willing to fight to defend. And would, with a thirteen-year-old Jack Zimmermann. Who was a little horrified at himself for the mean things he was saying about Uncle Marty when they’d been over to his house only two months ago for dinner. Jack couldn’t explain it, but he just knew that he couldn’t let this fight with the angry blonde kid from next door end.

That fight had ended, despite Jack’s best efforts. But what had come after had been better, even if it had thrown Jack’s life into an uproar that he wouldn’t get around to settling for years later.

In some ways, maybe the uproar never really settled. Not when Kent kept torpedoing into his life, making it impossible to really put him away. For Kent to find Jack again, fifteen years older, and make it just as impossible for Jack to step away from a fight he didn’t want to end. For Kent to change the game, and make it something other than a fight entirely.

 

Kent’s napping in the hammock in the backyard, one flip flop almost lost in a tuft of dune grass, the other lying in the sand ten feet away. Jack’s got the grill on, but it can stay on, not like he’s put any of the burger or hot dogs on there yet. He can afford to stand in the shadow of Kent’s beach house, and watch him nap for a second.

“You can’t sneak for shit on the ice,” Kent says without moving or cracking an eyelid. “I don’t know how you think you can pull it off without your skates on.”

“Sand is quieter than ice,” Jack says.

“Which makes it even more impressive that you’re such an unsubtle monster,” Kent says, and lifts up an arm. “Get over here.”

Jack levers himself into the hammock, accidentally elbowing Kent a little bit in the side as he sets the canvas and rope to creaking under his weight. Hammocks. The least romantic invention ever, probably.

“Oof,” Kent grumbles. “You don’t have to sabotage me in the off-season, asshole.” But he settles himself more comfortably into Jack’s arms, and he’s smiling.

“Can’t blame me for trying,” Jack says.

“No such thing as an off-season, I know, I know,” Kent’s eyes drift shut, and he rolls one shoulder absently, working out the lingering stiffness. “Where’d you get off to this morning?”

“Jog on the beach, then a swim,” Jack says. He’d woken up with pressure under his sternum and buzzing in his head, but the difference between Jack at twenty-eight and Jack at eighteen is he knows now the best way to quiet them both. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“It’s the Atlantic in June, you fucking yeti, that water has to be freezing.”

“You’re surrounded by ice for a living, Kenny," Jack murmurs into the soft cotton of Kent's shoulder, tapping one finger lightly against Kent's wrist. Breathes in, and then out, and it's barely a surprise anymore, how easy this is. 

“Yeah, and I get paid for that. Have I mentioned how much I get paid for that?” Kent says, but the yawn that follows it takes out all the bite. 

Jack elbows him in the side again, on purpose this time. “Might’ve mentioned it once or twice, asshole. Guess that means you’re buying me lunch, eh?”

“Walked right into that one,” Kent says drowsily, edging closer to actual sleep by the second. “Knew you were just after me for my money.”

Jack snorts. “Go to sleep, Kenny.”

“I’m not,” Kent mumbles, and is asleep before Jack can even respond.

 

Jan’s 24/7 Diner doesn’t look like it’s aged a day since they were fourteen; the rusted metal plating on the outside, and the cramped, pastel interior are exactly as they are in Jack’s memory. It’s funny, how that can happen. How some places can just stand still, while everything passes them by. Jack’s a different person entirely, probably, since the first time he crammed in tight with Kent on the same side of the very last booth.

They don’t fit half as well into it as they used to, but Jack can’t say he minds the way Kent hooks his left leg around Jack’s right, and slides Jack’s arm over his shoulders.

“Hey Jack,” Kent murmurs, poking Jack in the side with his index finger. “Jack. Pork roll, egg, and cheese.”

“No,” Jack says, because it’s been fifteen years since he first took this side, and he’s not about to let up on it now. “That’s not a real food, Kenny.”

Kent makes a loud scoffing noise, and Jack doesn’t have to turn his head to know that Kent’s pointedly turned up his nose, even as a small smile curls its way across Kent’s lips. Doesn’t have to, but he turns and looks anyways just because he can. He likes looking at Kent; most days, he doesn’t know how he ever stopped.

“Fuck you, it is. They oughta kick you out right away. Drop you off at the Philly state line because you won’t try pork roll and you don’t like Bruce Springsteen.”

Jack heaves a sigh. “I can like Bruce Springsteen just fine and not want to _fuck_  to his music.”

Kent pointedly snaps open his menu. “You know, I’ll win this argument one day.”

He probably will, too. Jack knows this, accepts it as a given for one of the core facts of his existence: that he is weak for Kent Parson in a way that thrums through his blood, in a way that he’s never been able to shake.

“No, you won’t,” Jack says, anyways.

"Well, aren't you two a sight for sore eyes," a voice rings out across the diner, and they both look up.

“Jan,” Kent says, warmly, all honey-thick charm, in that very specific way that he gets when he knows that none of what he says will get taken seriously. “How’ve you been?”

Jan comes out from behind the counter, apron firmly in place and grey hair plaited and wrapped around her head. “Oh, you know. Greyer with every passing day, but I can make an omelette with my eyes closed, so can’t complain.”

“Oh, come on. You know you don’t look a day over twenty-nine, Jan,” Kent says, 100% guile-free.

“Jackie-boy, how do you still put up with this one, when he’s so full of shit all of the time?” Jan says, balling both fists at her waist.

She’s grinning as she says it, though, and Jack has witnessed this very same conversation enough times that he knows exactly where he fits into it, can pick up the script like he never put it down. This is the part of the story where Jack rolls his eyes, and says, “I don’t,” while Kent squawks indignantly.

Jack’s trying not to stick to a script so much, these days. Wants for this to be different, the second time around.

Doesn’t want to risk a third time around that he might never get the chance to try out.

Jack huffs out a laugh, looks down at the lacquer tabletop. “Oh, I don’t know. I think we put up with each other.”  

The intake of breath is small, quiet, and probably only Jack can hear it, but he presses his leg closer into Kent’s anyways. Kent presses back.

Jan’s grin doesn’t waver for one second, but she raises her eyebrows knowingly. “Well, alright, fair enough. What’ll it be, boys? The usual?”

Kent glances at Jack, and mouths _pork roll_.

Now, Jack really does roll his eyes. “Yeah, Jan. The usual, please.”

“Hey,” Kent says, poking Jack in the thigh as Jan makes her way back into the kitchen. “Hey, Zimms.”

“What?”

Kent looks up at him through messy, beach-dried hair, eyes a clear sea-green that only seems to exist within New Jersey state lines. “Thanks for coming.”

Jack’s throat dries, and he’s overwhelmed suddenly, with all of the things he wants to say, that he knows he’ll never really be able to find the right words for. “Thanks for letting me.”

 

A million years ago, and a million years after they’d first met, Kent and Jack had been thrown into each other’s life again. Jack managed to go most days without thinking about him, the blonde angry boy who had raced him to the top of the lighthouse and kissed him there. And then Jack had turned around from his locker, first day in a new season in the Q, and met his eyes _literally_ across a crowded room.

Jack at sixteen, trying to keep his head above rising water, was going to look away instantly, pretend he didn’t remember.

But Kent was already across the room, already grabbing Jack by the arm, already bouncing back from shock to delighted surprise.

“Holy shit,” he’d said, and his voice was different, his face was different, his body was different, but his eyes were exactly the same. “Holy shit, it’s you.”

 

Kent had invited him to the shore house at the end of that first season. Jack, afraid of what that would mean, had said no.

But he’d kissed Kent for the first time just a week later, while they were waiting for Kent’s brother to come pick him up. So it had been the ultimate futile gesture, in a life filled with many just like it. Jack knows better, by now, than to try and convince himself that he wants anything other than this.

 

At this point, stretched out on a towel with the June sun high above them and Kent’s arms pebbled with goosebumps after the jump into the ocean that Jack had easily dared him into, Jack doesn’t regret it much. Doesn’t regret anything much. At this point, for all the past that’s behind them, there’s nothing he would change.

 

“So, what next?”

“Big off-season ahead of us,” Kent shrugs, pulls a t-shirt over his head. It’s a black one. It looks good on him. Goes well with the Devils-red swim trunks. “What do you want to do?”

“You just won the Stanley Cup,” Jack says with a quiet laugh. “You decide.”

“Jack,” Kent says. “What do you want to do?”

He doesn’t like to be put on the spot, hates being the one to make these kind of calls. But he stretches, lies back, feels the sun on his face and sand sticks to his legs, his hands, his chest. Kent’s hand brushes against his hip, not hesitant or unsure, just gentle.

“We’ll think of something.”

 


End file.
